


An Awful Mess

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Castiel is just standing there, ignoring the clumsy drag of Sam's grip on his coat, watching Dean for a response that is nowhere near to coming.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Awful Mess

The lines between Dean and Sam have been blurred to shit for most of their lives. Dean is aware that their attachment to each other is off the fucking reservation, somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, not for mere mortals to understand, and hell, Dean is ok with that. He's come to fucking terms, all right? But when Sam slithers his body against Dean's, pins him to the wall under a blanket of tense muscle and sheer determination, Dean sort of freaks out. It's strange how that happens, really. Usually when Sam's in trouble, Dean's first instinct is to throw himself in the line of fire. But this time, the line of fire is Sam's tongue, _Sam's tongue_ slicking its way into Dean's _mouth_. Yeah, he maybe overreacts a little. 

Knocking Sam out with the butt of his pistol might be saving Dean's (admittedly ambiguous) virtue, but it in no way solves the real problem at hand. In fact, it complicates matters even more because not only is Sam pumped full of succubus venom that will eventually burn him alive from the inside out, but now that baby bro is sleeping the sleep of the knocked unconscious, there's no way for him to rectify the situation. Not with Dean and not with anyone else. 

Having Sam dead to the world at least buys Dean some time to get them the hell out of dodge. Granted, "fleeing the scene" while hauling the two hundred plus pounds of Sam's gargantuan body isn't fleeing so much as it's slowly hobbling away while taking several breaks to catch his breath and whine privately at the pain in his old, aching knees. But given that there is a deceptively human looking body lying in the alley with a bullet in the head matching the ones in Dean's gun, getting as far away as possible is priority number one. 

The neighborhood isn't the best, but there's still a chance that someone heard the shot and called the cops. Dean would rather be gone than found getting sodomized by his kid brother should anyone arrive on the scene. Even Dean Winchester isn't smooth enough to talk his way out of that one. 

During the ride back to the motel, Dean has a little time to reflect. They'd done their research on this case, just as well as they did it on any other. Well, Sam had done the research and Dean had sleazed up the pretty witness with the tongue piercing. Either way, they were both fully aware that the only known cure for succubus venom was fucking, or as Sam had put it, "unprotected penetrative sex". 

Dean thinks about getting Sam a hooker. The biggest problem with that is that Sam is still unconscious. Dean doesn't have the first clue where to find a working girl that won't ask questions about banging someone who is knocked out. And even if Sam wakes up, it's likely he'll be frenzied. Dean could tie him up, but there is no way that any woman in her right mind wouldn't be freaked the fuck out by a situation like that. And Dean isn't too keen on Sam having unprotected sex with the kind of person who wouldn't be. 

When Dean gets them back to the motel, he reaches over the seat and feels Sam's sweaty forehead. He's burning up and only likely to get worse the longer Dean stalls. Cursing to himself and any deities that might be listening, Dean jumps out of the car and goes about wrangling Sam into the room. 

Just as Dean is heaving Sam up around his torso, trying to get a good grip on him, the worst thing that could possibly happen at that moment happens. Sam moans. The little fucker is regaining consciousness. Dean isn't ready. He isn't fucking _ready_ to deal with Sammy being conscious and handsy and an all around pain in the ass while Dean is trying to think of a way to get them out of this bullshit situation. 

With a groan of aggravation, Dean hustles them clumsily to their hotel door. Not having the physical or mental reserves to hold Sam up and unlock the damn thing, Dean just lets Sam collapse to the ground. The little bitch can just deal with a few bumps and bruises since he was stupid enough to get bitten by a succubus in the first place. In fact, if Dean gets Sam out of this alive, he's planning on delivering one major ass-whupping in the very near future. Dean smirks sickly when he hears Sam's grunt of pain. 

With the door open, Dean gets two good handfuls of Sam's bulky jacket and drags him over the threshold. Dean kicks the door closed after them and takes a moment to look down at his idiot brother. Even in the shadow-heavy room, Dean can see the sheen of sweat broken out over Sam's forehead, sticking thick clumps of his hair to his face. Sam's eyelids flutter feebly a few times and then finally crack open. 

"Dean?" Sam asks, voice thick with confusion and discomfort. 

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean says, crouching down to feel his brother's forehead again. Shit, he's even hotter than before and it has only been a few minutes since the last time he checked. "I'm here. I'mma take care of you."

Sam's hands come up and wrap around Dean's wrists. His grip is weak and feeble, easily broken at this point. "Dean, please. Fuck, I- what's wrong with me. Head's all fuzzy."

"Think you got a concussion, man," Dean offers and smooths Sam's hair off of his forehead. "Also you're juiced up on succubus venom and I'm pretty sure you're gonna expire from lust if we don't do something about that soon."

"Are you gonna-?" Sam asks blearily, squirming around a little until the hem of his t-shirt rides up and his boots chuff weakly against the carpet. "Fuck, man, you can't- I want- I-I- God make it stop."

"Calm down, Sammy," Dean says. "I got an idea. It's a fucking long shot, but it's what I got. First we need to get you on the bed. Can you stand?"

Sam blinks woozily up at Dean, not seeming to notice that his hands are sneaking up the cuffs of Dean's jacket, trying to get at skin. "Yeah, I- I think so." 

Dean tears away from Sam's grip, hooks his arms up under Sam's and levers him up. Sam helps the little bit he can, getting his feet under him to stumble the few steps over to the bed. They both crash down on the mattress with a bounce, Dean cursing and Sam moaning as he tries to roll up against his brother. "Stop it," Dean bites out irritably, smacking away Sam's grasping hands _again_ before jumping off of the bed and swiping the back of his hand over his chapped and bitten lips.

There's the glimmer of an idea twinkling on the horizon of Dean's mind. He doesn't really want it to fill out, rise up and grow, but there's little choice in the matter. Sam is half unconscious, writhing on the bed, hips pumping aimlessly and rucking his shirt and jacket into the small of his back. The sounds he's making, these fucking _pain_ sounds that always get Dean's teeth gritting are pouring rough out of the long stretch of his throat. 

Doing something about it is a line Dean just can't cross. If there were any hope of coming back from it, Dean would strip himself bare and crawl on top of Sam in a second, but even _he_ knows something like that can't be repressed. The place Dean buries all of their ugly issues is too full to hold something as massive as magically induced incest. 

Covering his face in both hands, the idea he hates takes a firm hold of Dean and bubbles up without another thought. "Castiel, please," Dean rasps into his rough palms. "Please fucking help me. Please, Cas. Please come."

Horrified and scared, Dean waits in the shadow-heavy motel room. Dean presses the heels of his palms hard into his eyes, smashes away the itching prickle of tears that are threatening. If Castiel doesn't come, Dean is going to have to deal with this on his own and a half-hysterical moan wiggles its way up out of his chest. 

A fluttering sound and that sharp electric scent that always marks Castiel's arrival hits Dean, along with a rush of grateful relief. Dean is half-turned to greet and beg the angel, when Castiel shoulders roughly past him, knocking thoughtlessly against him in his haste. But then, that can't be right. There is very little that Castiel does without forethought. So then, the aggression is pre-meditated and Dean can't even be annoyed about it. 

"Damn it, Dean," Castiel grumbles, almost to himself, and the cursing shocks and jolts Dean with its unexpectedness. When Castiel reaches down and rips the arm of Sam's jacket off like it's nothing more than tissue paper, Dean blinks and comes back to himself. The sleeve of Sam's undershirt gets the same rough treatment, revealing the angry puncture marks left by the succubus. "Why did you not call me sooner?"

"I didn’t-" Dean's words stall when Castiel hunches down and sets his mouth to the wound, sucking long and hard before turning to spit a mouthful of fluid pinkened with blood onto the carpet. Why hadn't he thought of that? "Will that work?"

"Cas?" Sam takes that moment to flutter his eyes open and turn magnetically towards the angel bent over him. "Jesus, look at you."

"No," Castiel answers Dean, ignoring Sam's words and the way his free hand scrabbles up to get a grip on the open edge of Castiel's trench coat. "It might have, had you called me sooner. I could have simply burned away the venom with my powers, but now it has worked its way too deeply into his bloodstream. It would kill him if I tried now."

"So, so-" Dean stammers, scrubbing his sweating palms nervously down the denim stretched across his thighs. "So, that means you can't cure him?"

Castiel straightens from his bend and turns to look at Dean for the first time since he's arrived. Even as Dean can't make out his harsh blue eyes in the darkness of the room, he feels pinned beneath the weight of accusation. "I can," Castiel responds carefully, voice flat as ever, but laced with an undercurrent of some emotion Dean can’t quite decipher. "But only as the magic originally intended."

Honestly, when Dean had originally thought to call for Castiel's help, it hadn't even occurred to him that the angel's mojo could have cured Sam. From the onset, Dean was prepared for this outcome, but now that it was being put to him so baldly, he felt a punch of sick guilt straight to the gut. Castiel is just standing there, ignoring the clumsy drag of Sam's grip on his coat, watching Dean for a response that is nowhere near to coming. How do you ask your best friend to just spread his legs and let your brother fuck him? Like most of the situations in Dean's life, there is no rulebook for this. 

After a couple of long moments, Castiel gives a sigh that's equal parts weariness and exasperation. Rather than lecturing Dean, Castiel just shrugs out of his trench coat, Sam helping him along with a stilted tug. That sick guilt roils in Dean's belly, threatening to bring up his dinner and the six beers he had with it. "I'll just-" he mutters and makes a motion towards the door. 

Before Dean can make it across the room, Castiel whips around and says, "Don't you dare."

Dean halts immediately, feet stuck to the floor under the weight of the direct order. Stuck by the anger he heard in Castiel's voice. 

"You are always calling upon me to clean up your messes," Castiel's accusing voice comes from behind him. "Don't you dare abandon me."

Dean swallows thickly against the lump in his throat, stares long and hard at the flat surface of the door. "What do you want me to do, Cas?" 

There's a long silence, Dean staring blankly at the wall and the sounds of Sam's panting moans. He wonders how long they can procrastinate before Sam's heart gives out. If Sam were in his right mind, if he weren't struggling against a concussion, he might have been able to take matters into his own hands. Dean has done this to himself then, and so there's another thing to swallow the blame for. 

"I have no experience with…sex," Castiel finally answers, only the vaguest hint of embarrassment laced through the gruff timber of his voice. "I need you to tell me what to do."

Dean groans in misery and lets his head fall into his hands again. _Fuck my life,_ Dean thinks despondently. _Seriously. Fuck my life._ Because talking his virgin angel best friend through getting his ass-cherry popped? That's even too fucked up for _his_ brain to completely process. 

There have been times, a few or a hundred, where Dean has drifted lazily over thoughts of Castiel finally giving it up. Castiel, naked, hemming in all of that scary angelness and getting really human, opening up and letting it all out. _Feeling_. None of those times had Dean pictured it happening this way. 

But this was something. This was him here for it, with Castiel asking to be guided by _him_. Dean has never sat in the director's chair, but he knows how to boss people around. He gets a gold star in being a leader. He could _do this_. 

Pulling his hands down from his face, Dean flattens them against the door with hollow thud. "Take your clothes off," he grits out over his suddenly thick tongue. 

Dean tries to stare at his own hands, to keep his face averted, but he can hear the rustle of Castiel's clothes being shed, he can hear Sam take a deep gasp, and he _can't_. He can't not look. 

Twisting around, Dean sees it, in the dim warm lights cast through the window blinds. Shadow stripes from the slats ladder down the naked stretch of Castiel's torso, fall in dark grays over white where Castiel's hands and wrists twist over the buckle of his belt. Dean bites his lip hard enough to bleed, fixes on the efficient glide of Castiel's fingers working open his fly. Thumbs hooked through the waistbands sitting on his slim hips, Castiel shoves his pants and underwear down without preamble, shameless and bared to the ankle. 

The first stumble comes when Castiel tries to toe his shoes off around the puddled lump of his pants. Dean has been waiting for this, when the angel's awkwardness would stall him. Castiel gives a huff of annoyance and bends over to untangle his feet and Dean is made aware that he isn't the only one watching when he hears Sam whine. 

Dean finally looks back at his brother and finds him pushed up on one elbow, eyes narrowed and hazy and fixed firmly on the peek of Castiel's bent backside. Dean would say he looks hungry, looks desperate, if there weren't still a slow waver to his heavy head. There's blood in Sam's hair where Dean hit him, there are dark shadows beneath his eyes and his lips are pale and drawn. But the long, thick line of Sam's cock pressing up the denim of his jeans is keeping him just this side of aware and the thin scraps of his attention are zeroed completely in on Castiel. 

"What now?" Castiel asks, bringing Dean's attention back around to him. He's stark naked now, body a long slender line with ribs and trim muscle rising in dips under his fine skin. Castiel's head is lowered to examine his own nudity like it's something new to him.

He knows it's crass and that he shouldn't, but Dean drags his eyes all the way down to Castiel's crotch where he's still soft and supple, lying limp in a light thatch of dark hair. 

"You have to get yourself ready," Dean finally answers, voice rough and shot. 

"How do you mean?" Castiel asks, perking his head back up and tilting it. Even naked, under two heavy stares, Castiel is the same, unchanging and absolutely different from anything Dean has ever seen or imagined. Dean couldn't have _dreamed_ him up. 

"Deeeeeann," Sam groans. He's fallen back against the bed, huge hands masking his flushed face. "Just- fuck- put a fucking bullet in me. I'm freaking dying here."

And, though Sam has been known for fits of histrionics and exaggerations, he's not lying this time. He's, quite literally, _dying_. 

Dean swallows his nerves, pushes back that hot flush of something he's been feeling since Castiel started baring himself, inch by pretty inch. "Get on the bed, Cas," Dean tells him, moves through the dark room to where he threw his duffel earlier in the night. "Keep him distracted."

"How?" Castiel queries. 

"Fucking touch him, kiss him, just do something," Dean snaps irritably. Hauling the duffel onto the other bed, he rummages around through dirty clothes until he finds what he's looking for, a sticky half-squeezed bottle of lube. 

When Dean looks back up, his mouth falls open and he's struck stupid. Castiel is straddling Sam now, hauled in close by Sam's massive, grasping hands sliding greedily along the clean, smooth skin of Castiel's back. One of those hands pauses at the side of Castiel's tapered waist, gives it a tight squeeze while Sam mouths lazily at the juncture of Castiel's neck and shoulder. 

Dean can't see Castiel's face, it's turned away from him, but he's propped himself up with his arms on either side of Sam's broad shoulders. They're shaking a little. Castiel is shaking all over. "Dean?" he hears Castiel ask, voice as shaky as the rest of him, nervous and questioning. He sounds scared, more than Dean's ever heard him and the strangeness of that has Dean moving, snaps him right out of his shocked stupor. 

"I'm here, Cas," Dean says, rounding the empty bed to seat himself on the opposite edge. There's just the narrow space between him and them now, such little space that he could reach out and touch if he dared. Dean doesn't, just tosses the tube of lubricant onto the other bed and sits back.

Sam is making these little broken noises into the skin of Castiel's throat, grinding his hips up between Castiel's spread thighs, breaths coming out in whining gasps. 

"You have to use that on yourself, Cas," Dean prompts, voice rough and shot to shit. His gaze snags on the bumps of Castiel's spine, arched like an angry cat, shoulder blades protruding and shifting tensely. 

Castiel flattens one hand on Sam's chest, pushes his straining body to the bed so he can turn and find what Dean left for him. Raising himself up over Sam's body, one hand planted firmly in the center of Sam's chest, Castiel picks up the tube and studies it with an interested squint. Dean has to turn his face away for a second, can barely stand how good Castiel looks sitting astride Sam's pulsing hips. 

"Oh, God. This is so fucked up," Dean hears Sam's muffled voice and turns back. Sam has peeled his hands away from Castiel's body and covered his flushed face with them, like he can't stand to look either. 

"I use this on my fingers, yes?" Cas asks, snicking open the cap of the lube. He looks a little startled when a shiny drop pulses up and out of the bottle. 

"Jesus Christ," Dean swears, mirrors Sam by placing his hands over of his face. " _Yes_ , Cas. You put the lube on your fingers and work them into your ass. Are you really this naïve or are you being deliberately obtuse?"

It goes dead silent in the room for a shocking second, like every sound has been killed and when Dean removes his hands, Castiel's eyes find his in the dark. The angel's are narrowed down to slits and Dean can't quite make out the cold blue of them. But he can feel the anger directed at him, the near disgust and it occurs to Dean that Castiel might just hate him a little bit in that moment. His breath catches in his throat, an apology trying to climb its way out of him, but Dean chokes it down and lets it fester with his shameful excitement. The look Castiel gives Dean tells him everything he needs to know, tells him this is Dean using him again, and, as always, it makes him sickly proud to have so much influence over a creature so mighty. 

Gaze locked on Dean, Castiel squirts a dribble of lube over his fingers, light catching it shiny and obscene in the barely there light. Raised on his knees, Castiel reaches behind him, shadows falling in the corded muscles of his arm when he slots his fingers between the cheeks of his pert little ass and shoves them in. There's nothing shy or sweet in the way Castiel handles himself, rolling his hips down to meet his hand, making it a show for Dean, proving just how weak he isn't. 

Dean watches, hunched on the edge of the bed, only inches away from the action. His grip on his thighs is so tight, nails cutting through denim to claw at skin. He's hard as granite and Castiel is watching him back for only a moment. 

Then, just like that, the spell is broken when Castiel turns his attention to Sam. Dean feels sorely dismissed and without any sound argument to complain. 

Now slowly riding the invasion of his hand, hips swaying in slow waves, Castiel uses his free hand to work open Sam's belt. The contact has Sam whimpering into the meat of his palms, grinding up beneath the sexy spread of Castiel's thighs. They're all three of them shaking at this point; Sam in jerky twitches, Castiel all slow shivers of new sensation and Dean just a chilled, jealous buzz along his skin. 

The buttons of Sam's fly pop open, one, two, three, four, just barely audible over the huffing groans being smeared into Sam's hands. It's then that Castiel pulls his fingers out of himself with a moist, slurping suck that makes Dean's cock jump in his jeans. He can't see it from this angle, but Dean bets Castiel's hole is all shiny and pink, still all tight, but ready for use. Sam's hands drag away from his flushed face finally and even through the dark, his eyes are drugged and glazed. Sam's bitten clear through his bottom lip, a dark smear of blood hanging there 'til it gets licked away. 

When Sam reaches down to push his jeans and underwear over his hips, his cock springs free, wet and huge and well past ready. Dean's stomach clenches in discomfort because shit just got real. His little brother is going to shove that massive cock of his into Castiel, gonna spear open that little body and make it his and Dean wants to fucking scream. 

But Sam doesn't do anything of the sort, just lays there, eyes locked with rapt focus as Castiel crawls into position over him. Dean's never seen Sam so undone, so fucking grateful and awed as he is in this moment while Castiel grips his thick dick and guides it into his body

It's Castiel who fractures the heavy silence, Castiel who lets his head fall loose on his neck as he sinks down with a groan that shocks its way all through Dean. 

_That's mine_ , Dean thinks, greedy and ugly and wrong. _That's **mine**_ , furious and hurt while Sam whines and bows his spine in a thrust to meet Castiel. 

Castiel's shoulders twitch and he tosses his head, like he heard Dean's thoughts and is shaking them off. He doesn't look at Dean and neither does Sam. Dean's forgotten and could slip away without notice or comment, but he doesn't. He stays stock still, bruising his thighs under the pressure of his grasping hands and watches. Dean watches because he wants this punishment and because he's too selfish not to keep a little part of this for his own. 

Palms flattened to Sam's chest, fully bare over Sam's clothed mass, Castiel rises up and falls back. His muscles strain everywhere that Dean's eyes follow, thighs and arms and neck all tight with the effort, tendons working under skin as Castiel begins a slow, hard ride. 

It's been a damn long time, but Dean remembers that feeling. Getting split open on dick, stuffed full and wide, but he knows he never had it like Castiel is getting it. Sam's huge everywhere, a fucking beast of a man, rutting up and groaning under Castiel's spare frame. He's grabbing Castiel hard, humping into every thrust, sweating clear through his shirt, owned and owning and Dean would be impressed if he weren't so grossly jealous. 

"Ah!" Castiel cries out, throwing his head back and Dean thinks, _there it is. Sam just nailed the spot._

It's pretty and it's vile, Castiel's hips tilting just right to keep the pressure right there, riding harder and faster and lost to it. There's something completely shameless in the angles of Castiel's body, something urgent and needy. He rolls and falls seamlessly, like he was built for it, made to fuck himself onto Sam's cock and it's not like Dean is the only one who has noticed. 

The muzziness to Sam's eyes has cleared during the ride and he's looking right up at Castiel's face, something smug and satisfied to the twist of his lips as he grips Castiel's hips and rises up to meet him. "Yeah, yeah," Sam pants, all breathy and turned on. "Come on."

Castiel's hands have disappeared under Sam's t-shirt, doing God knows what up there. Above the waist of Sam's rucked-down jeans is a peek of bared skin and Dean can just hear the sloppy sound of it slapping against Castiel's. They're working each other like rutting animals, grunts and growls breaking between them and Castiel is leaning closer and closer, bowing over Sam while he grinds like a writhing slut. 

Sam pulls Castiel down by the neck, slams their mouths together and Dean can see the sleek pink of licking tongues. He can't watch that, not kissing, so he slides his gaze down to the space where they meet. Through the shadows between their bodies, Dean sees Castiel hard and leaking, nudging against the bunching muscles of Sam's abs. Their sounds are messy, the moans and slurps of filthy kissing, while Dean keeps his eyes on that in-between space, that place where Castiel is suddenly twitching and pulsing, coming untouched like a fucking miracle.

Dean doesn't wait to see Sam finish, jumps off the bed on shaky legs that carry him away. But he hears it, hears Sam groan long and low, choked and wondering, right before he slams the bathroom door behind him. 

Back flat to the door in the pitch-black coolness, Dean shoves his hand into his jeans without unbuttoning. In only three brutal strokes he's coming in hard, punishing jerks that barely feel good at all. When he's done, Dean cleans his hands with cold tap water, splashes his face and plans to hide there for a very, very long time. 

Part of Dean kind of hopes Castiel really _does_ hate him a little. Maybe if he does, Dean won't have to feel guilty for returning the sentiment.


End file.
